


La Belle Dame Sans Regrets

by osmalic



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-11
Updated: 2000-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder forces the guests of a party to stay in a mansion--one of whom is Cain. Unfortunately, it looks like it's up to him to solve this droll mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Belle Dame Sans Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> When I first wrote this (circa 2000), there were no official translations of Riff's name yet, so I used Leif. (I thought it made sense.) I am now too lazy to change it since then.

Eager as he was to escape the ballroom, the gentleman could not help but cast a momentary glance to the parlour where the rest of the men his rank were playing cards. Bored as they, he gave a shrug to himself, not wishing to join them. He had seen, after all, the effects of gambling first-hand. Those games of seemingly innocent smooth paper resulted to many different downfalls, especially when held by greedy men whose lives revolved around gambling: duels, loss of properties, even death.

He was a gentleman; he did not indulge himself in gambling in wine unlike his comrades.

Upon reaching the frames, he pushed the lacy white draperies (ordered most likely, he took note, from Paris especially for this occasion) aside to step out to the balcony. There, he took a heavy sigh of relief, finding the fresh air comforting and the muffled sounds of dancing and chatters strangely muted. The balcony was large, the floor and railing encased entirely with marbles (from Rome, he remembered, as the host kindly explained to him upon inquiry). It overlooked the garden, which in the dark, looked foreboding yet strangely comforting. He went to the edge, leaning over the thick rails to let his eyes indulge in the dim leaves below him. The gardener has overdone himself, he thought with satisfaction, taking note of the different flower bushes that were trimmed to spherical perfection. Pathways over the garden were filtered with white sands specially ordered from Asia's exotic white beaches. The family did not hesitate to brag of their acquired wealth over the different generations. Gargoyle statues that many would say were grotesque (yet he found oddly comforting) stood proudly, raising their weapons of tridents and spears to the heavens as if an attempt to storm God's reign.

Sighing again, he let his eyes close. He did not wish to enter the ballroom again; they were crowded with women eager to ensnare husbands, or husbands eager to ensnare mistresses. Fans masked whispers and gossips, expensive wine specially ordered from Venice flowed all too freely, and gentlemen gambled their wealth under the heavy smoke coming from their cigars. There, in the ballroom, he felt strangled, mutilated. Here, in this haven where the orchestra and chatters blended nicely to become music, he felt safe.

Humming under his breath, he was surprised when something lightly fell over his shoulder, causing him to jump and whirl around, ready to give a shout. However, his voice came out as a slight breath when he saw the figure standing behind him. He almost laughed aloud: how could he have been startled? He should have recognized the gloved hand, should have known that it was a human touch!

Banishing thoughts of monsters and demons that come out of the darkness, he readily smiled. Even he, a gentleman, was only man. He indulged himself to at least one vice.

"Would you," the figure said to him coyly, gloved arm stretching to touch his, "like to dance?"

* * *

Sir Justin Thoreau's body was found on the garden the next day. Nobody noticed it until dawn, when one of the maids cleaning up after the ball noticed that there was blood dripping from one of the gargoyles' naked body. Thoreau's torso was impaled on the statue's spear; his chest was smashed and his face bore a mask of horror.

Because it was at the countryside, officials from London were late in coming. Brunch, which was normally served at the balcony to welcome the sunshine, was moved to the dining hall instead. Guests who stayed overnight were advised to stay put. This, of course, resulted to many swooning from women and some hysterics from the ladies.

Needless to say, Count Cain Hargreaves was annoyed.

"I had hoped to return earlier," he confided to his butler Leif, not without a slight huff, as the maid informed him of this turn of events. "Merryweather's newly-ordered gowns will arrive soon and she would throw another fit if I am not there to choose which are best for her."

His butler answered this statement with barely a smile; it was alright, Hargreaves did not expect any words. He let himself be dressed and led to the breakfast hall where the others guests were gathered and abuzz with news.

"I _did_ say Madame Cleavont was mad when she threw this ball," one of them, Mrs. Whittaker, said loudly as Cain was seated himself beside her. "Why, she was asking for it...throwing such a large party outside London just when the debut season is beginning! It was a bad omen."

"Surely the ton understands," the gentleman at her other side, Mr. Ralf Dumont, replied doubtfully. "After all, Madame Cleavont holds this ball annually, and she is a respected lady of the ton. Nobody thought--"

"Still, I say she deserves it," sniffed Mrs. Whittaker, incensed that a lowly professor would dare contradict her. "These balls are, after all, only thrown to brag about her five daughters' beauty. If she wanted to give them a proper party, present them as debutantes to the ton, I say!"

"How observant, Madame Whittaker," Hargreaves joined in, smiling at her as he raised his wineglass to receive the brandy offered to him. "How odd, though, that you complain and still attend this party!"

The woman glared at him while trying not to. Cain C. Hargreaves, after all, was one of the most eccentric nobles in London, one of the most eligible as well--and she had two daughters to marry off! Beside her, Mr. Dumont raised his glass to a silent toast and Hargreaves only gave a slight nod in reply. The incident has affected him sourly and he felt he was not entitled to be particularly polite this morning. He wondered idly as he ate how Merryweather was. _Annoyed,_ he thought with a touch of smile on his lips, as annoyed as he.

"The police shall arrive in an hour," Dumont informed the young count, conveniently overlooking Mrs. Whittaker's podgy white head. "I have heard your reputation as a detective, Hargreaves; would you like to take this challenge?"

Smiling easily, Hargreaves sipped some of his wine before answering: "You will forgive me for denying it. I'm afraid I'm more concerned with returning to London."

"Ah, yes. Business is time and time is gold, says you, eh, Hargreaves?"

Apparently annoyed of being ignored, Mrs. Whittaker leaned forward over the table to talk to another lady, a thin and pale woman by the name Miss Ophelia Pinney. "I hear that Sir Thoreau came with his siblings. Have they made an appearance?"

"Goodness, no!" Miss Pinney seemed shocked at the suggestion. Eager to give another piece of gossip, she went on to say, "Poor Emily and Leonard! Returning from France from one tragedy to another...it seems they are cursed."

"Tragedy?" another person, this time a man near them, interjected.

Finding herself as the centre of attention, Miss Pinney cleared her throat and looked pleased and serious. "Surely someone remembers Lady Aubrey Kinnison? The woman who shocked society by marrying that horrid rake Frenchman Cedri Thoreau after barely a week of courting? The French are such sweet talkers, I always say. I had a French beau once...did not let myself believe his golden lies for one second!" There was a murmur as people affirmed this. She went on, "I remember when Justin was twenty, barely out of the university, when Cedri died and the whole family went to France. Emily was still fourteen then."

"On with the tragedy, Pinney!" one of them scoffed and Miss Pinney sniffed.

"I am about to get to that," she retorted, clearing her throat again and sipping wine. "Well, I hear a few years later that it seems Aubrey bore another son soon after arriving in France. Imagine--her husband not even cold in the grave and she goes and gets herself pregnant?! I tell you, Leonard is not Cedri's son. His face structure is different, although he inherited his mother's face. Clever of them to run to Paris, to be lost among the cruel mob. However, only around three year ago, Aubrey died and a year ago, Justin was called by the Parliament to return for business. He gathered quite a name for himself."

"But I hear Sir Justin Thoreau was to be wed," Mrs. Whittaker, forgotten over the story, put in. "Wasn't he just recently engaged?"

"Yes, yes," Miss Pinney nodded. "You remember Amelia Whitfield from Sussex? Barely out of her debut last year? She was here last night but went home at dawn this morning, with the excuse she was called by her father. I tell you--how mysterious!"

There was a nod again but the story was broken by a cracking of glass. Everyone turned to watch a young man, almost at the end of the long table, his auburn hair most flaming, his long figure standing beside the table as if he forced himself to move. His broken wineglass sat in his hand mingling with blood and he turned now to stare at Miss Pinney. "Amelia had nothing to do with Justin's death!" the young man cried out, voice out of breath as if he was strangled. "She wishes no ill will for him, only the kindest of intentions!"

Hargreaves, amused at the progress of the story, watched silently as the man appeared horrified at what he just said and stumbled quickly out of the room. He turned briefly, catching Leif's eye. His butler gave a small nod of assent and discreetly disappeared.

"Wasn't that...?" one of the guests' voice trailed off to leave the question hanging.

"Sure you are," Mrs. Whittaker affirmed, almost giddy with excitement. "Imagine, after five years of being rejected by Amelia Whitfield, Samuel Cleavont still pines for her!"

Hargreaves, meanwhile, quietly finished his breakfast, thinking of the young man. He did not usually indulge in gossip, but the story of Samuel Cleavont's love for Amelia Whitfield had reached even his normally closed ears (with the help of the servants' loose tongues, of course). The second son of Sir Russell and Rochelle Cleavont, Samuel was not endowed with a large sum of money. All attention had been lavished to his older brother Bernard and the large dowry of his older sister Vivien. He had tried to court Amelia Whitfield, beloved daughter of one of the knights, in vain. He had no money and Amelia, then a young girl, rejected him. He had not persisted, but it had been a favourite topic among the ton: a second son daring to woo a knight's daughter and not succeeding. Samuel had brought himself quite a name and barely scraped his shattered reputation.

"I _do_ hope they clean up the gardens and let us return home," one of the guests complained, breaking into Hargreaves' thoughts. "I was looking forward to meeting Professor Dane in the university this afternoon. I suppose I shall have to cancel."

 _You echo my thoughts,_ Hargreaves thought sourly, raising his glass to his lips. Suddenly itching, he turned to Dumont who similarly stood with him. He allowed a ghost of a smile touch his lips once more. "Professor, you have caught my vice," he confessed, fishing his gloves from pocket. "Shall we see the scene of the crime?"

* * *

Leif found Samuel Cleavont in the sitting room, staring forlornly out of the large French windows. With silence endowed to him by years of practice, he spoke only when he was very near the man. "Your hand is bleeding," he noted Startled, Cleavont turned to him, blinking as if refocusing. "Hm? Oh, yes. I'll have someone clean it up in a while."

"If you will permit me, sir..." Leif held out his hand.

Cleavont hesitated only a moment before resigning and showing him the bleeding palm. "It's not much," he said softly, his thoughts apparently far away. "It is not a vicious pain."

Leif did not answer. He allowed people to talk to him; he was a servant and a listener. He did not speak when he was not indicated to answer.

"It is nothing," the other young man went on dreamily, "compared to the pain in my heart when she struck it. Amelia is beautiful and cruel. Seeing her again last night brought back memories. Ahh...she would have forgotten them, I suppose. She is engaged to Sir Justin after all. He would do her good, better than I."

Not resisting, Leif looked up and said, "Sir Thoreau is dead, sir."

Cleavont blinked and looked down at him as if he had forgotten he was there. "Oh yes. Yes, killed today. In our garden." Leif noted that he seemed to be struggling to remember. He said not another word, instead concentrating on picking the glass shards from the skin. The wound was not deep, but it would cause problems if he tried to write, providing he was right-handed. He did not think it was a problem, however. Nobilities have secretaries with whom they can dictate their letters and concerns.

"Justin cared for her, I think, but not the way I loved her. No one can love Amelia the way I can. I loved her since she was a child; I love her still now that she's an adult. Absurd, you say, but true..." He gave a sigh. "But a daughter of a knight. She is higher than my rank. She is more of a match to my brother, although we do not have that much money. Horses...she always loved horses. Thoroughbreds are her favourites. Chestnuts, mares...how lovely. She was lovely." He sighed.

Leif took out a handkerchief from his pocket to bandage the wound.

"I don't think she loved Sir Justin. Amelia is not capable of loving. She is not capable of caring. She would suck him dry, as she did me! Yet she continues to take from me, and I have a lot to give. Justin is dead--he cannot give anymore!" Cleavont gave a harsh laugh, throwing back his head. His red hair caught the sunlight, causing Leif to turn away momentarily. He seemed like fire.

"Perhaps she did kill him," the man went on, speaking to himself. "Killed him because she was finished with him. Marriage is not convenient for her royalty...Her Highness, Amelia Whitfield!"

Leif released the hand. "It is finished, sir," he said.

Cleavont blinked and turned to him, snapping out of his ramblings. "Of--of course." He seemed to remember where he was. He looked at his hand, now free from shards. The blood that dried was hastily wiped away by a white napkin which was now wrapped around his palm to stop the bleeding. He smiled. "Thank you."

Leif bowed slightly in reply and turned to go but stopped and turned again when Cleavont called him.

"I say, man. What's your name?"

Leif did not hesitate in his reply: "I am Count Hargreaves' valet, sir," for he had no other name to these nobilities.

Suffice to say, watching the man's face pale more was almost worth listening to his rambles. Not without some smugness, Leif let himself out of the room, leaving Cleavont to stare out of the window again.

* * *

The body was roasting in the noon sun. The maids have been forbidden to touch it until the authorities arrived. Fascinated, the professor and the count neared it from the ballroom balcony, staring down.

"He fell," Hargreaves mused. "He must have stood over here," he motioned, "and fell. He faces the sky--he was facing the ballroom doorframe."

"I wonder why he did not scream out," Dumont said thoughtfully. "Or did no one hear?"

Hargreaves did not answer; he was too busy leaning over the railing to watch the body. There was a slight breeze. Below, he could see the white pathway now stained with dried brown blood. He wondered how Madame Cleavont would scrub the gargoyle to relieve it from its copper colour. Blood, after all, stains everything.

Then, he noticed something. Frowning, he leaned further, ignoring Dumont's startled shout for him to take care. He could see something black clutched in Thoreau's right hand. He wished the authorities will arrive soon so the body would be taken down and he would finally see what it was.

He was sliding back when his eye caught one of the potted plants next to the marble railings. He knelt beside it and tipped the plant, finding a black cloth beneath it.

"Found anything, Hargreaves?" Dumont asked, snapping him from his thoughts.

Hargreaves shrugged. "Perhaps," he replied and, pocketing his find, politely invited the man inside for coffee.

* * *

The siblings Miss Emily and Leonard Thoreau made an appearance at the request of the police an hour later. Ten-year-old Leonard seemed confused, oblivious of his rumpled state. Although he looked like his mother Aubrey according to what Hargreaves could remember, his sharp profile also screamed that he was of French origin. Emily Thoreau, meanwhile, wore a black dress, which she brought from Paris. Everyone watched her warily; Emily's beauty was transparent. She was fair and her skin pale, paler now with stress. Her eyes were red with crying but she stood proudly and held her younger brother's hand in hers. When she entered the room where the police were to question her, she whispered some words to her little brother who promptly nodded and ran out of the room.

"I was in my quarters," she explained to the police when the boy was gone. "I had a headache earlier on and begged to be excused. Justin stayed on with his fiancee, Amelia Whitfield. Leonard was with the other children in the nursery."

Hargreaves stood beside the window, watching the activities below. From that wing, he could see the authorities work to remove the body. He listened half-heartedly at Emily's explanation. He glanced at her from time to time. She was extraordinarily beautiful, made ethereal because of her tension. Her golden hair, inherited from her mother, fell into golden tresses over her shoulders and back but not over her face. They were held back by a simple black cloth. Her eyes stared at the authorities pleadingly. She was, Hargreaves had to admit, a worthy catch for the any gentleman.

"Who can confirm this?" the inspector was asking.

"The Count Hargreaves," was the reply. "I danced with him last night before pleading a headache." She turned to the count.

Hargreaves nodded. "Yes, what she said is true." He thought about the dance itself and smiled. The woman's waist was small and perfect, the silk gloves brushing against his jacket as he held her against him. She was the only woman he had danced with the night before.

"Who would do such a thing to my brother?" she whispered. In her hands she wrung a lacy white handkerchief. "So cruel...the world is too cruel." She sobbed into her handkerchief.

The head police apparently felt her distress and moved to comfort her. Hargreaves made a move to go out of the room, the interview finished, but something collided with him. He looked down and saw a blond mop of hair and he held out a hand to steady the moving body.

"Begging your pardon, m'sieur!" a highly French-accented voice said in British. It came from the boy and he now looked up to Cain. "I am afraid I did not see you."

"Leonard!" Immediately, the sobs stopped and Miss Thoreau quickly composed herself to hold out her arms to the boy. "I told you to stay with the other children."

Leonard Thoreau gave a bow to Hargreaves before running towards his older sister and began to speak in rapid French. Hargreaves, however, stopped from the motion of removing himself from the room to watch the scene before him. He was suddenly both amused and disturbed. He had seen Leonard's eyes--a disturbing dark brown mingled with gold. He knew only of one other pair of eyes with the same tinge of gold--himself.

"Where is Brother Justin, Sister?" Leonard asked in French, his young voice still high-pitched. "The other children were cruel--they kept saying Brother is not to come back and has done a wicked thing in the house. I do not understand!"

"My dear," murmured Miss Emily, embracing her brother. "Oh, I do not know what to tell you!"

"Madame," the police murmured.

"Tell me!" the boy insisted, trying to squirm away from her grasp. "I do not believe their words."

Again, Emily seemed ready to weep. "Oh, Leonard, Leonard...our brother Justin is dead!"

Leonard froze. "Maman is dead as well," he whispered, eyes widening.

"Yes, we are alone in the world," Emily replied, her French words muffled against the blond mop of hair pressed against her face.

"NO!" Leonard pulled back, eyes wild and arms held up as if to ward off his sister's words. "No--it can't be true! Justin would not leave us--! He loved us...we were to live with him and Miss Amelia once they are wed...he would not leave us as Maman did!"

"Leonard," Miss Emily said pleadingly.

"YOU LIE!" With a strangled sob, Leonard blindly found the door and disappeared through it.

Miss Emily stood quickly, crying out, "Leonard!" Gathering her skirts and sending a hasty pardon to the police, she rushed off after the hysterical boy, ignoring the count who watched the whole episode with a frown.

 _Gold eyes..._ Hargreaves' smooth brow wrinkled at the thought. _This can't mean anything, can it?_

"Count Hargreaves," a voice said from behind. "It _is_ you, is it not?"

Hargreaves sighed and turned to the source. "Yes, it is I. What is it?"

"I have to say, I did not expect to find you here," said the police, hat in hand and watching him with an amused expression. "I have heard that the famous poison aficionado did not particularly like balls and tons, seemingly avoiding them like a plague."

"And you have not heard in vain," Hargreaves retorted, mildly annoyed that this man dared to speak to him in a loose fashion. "What is your point?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've heard a lot about you. I am Inspector Renault, at your service, sir. I have also heard you fancied mysteries and crimes, kind of like Sir Doyle's prints in the newspaper nowadays--the story of that fellow Sherlock Holmes?" It was said not without mockery.

Hargreaves' eyes narrowed. "I do not follow danger if that is your implication," he said carefully and coldly.

Inspector Renault smiled back. "I do not imply, sir," he said. "I was merely wondering why you are here when you do not like it."

There was a long silence as Inspector Renault obviously waited for a defence. Finally, Hargreaves blinked at him innocently. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that a question?"

The inspector gave a growl and put on his hat, leaving the count without even a polite excuse. Laughing silently to himself, Hargreaves turned to follow him.

* * *

Leif was making his way to the servants' quarters to see if he had forgotten anything in his room that he shared with one of the guests' valets. He knew that Master Hargreaves would be likely to leave immediately when the problem cleared and he needed to be ready. The whole kitchen was abuzz with the news of Sir Thoreau's murder and the scullery maids could not keep themselves from giving their own speculations. They mostly ignored him and the other guests' servants although the carriage driver, Mr. Crowe, seemed to be nervous whenever Leif was around. He apparently knew of the poison count and his trusty valet.

"Aye, that Amelia Whitfield is a menace," one of the head maids by the name of Dorothy declared. "Did she no' swear many a-years ago that Samuel Cleavont would rue the day he courted 'er?"

"That was a-many years ago, Dorothy, " argued another carriage driver. "That miss is a sweet young 'un. She was spoiled, aye, but she carried on like a proper lady, that Miss Amelia did."

Another maid sniffed. "You say that only because you 'arbour a secret love for 'er," she shot at him.

The driver appeared wounded. "True she's sweet, but not as sweet as you now," he teased, earning him a smack on the side. He did not dodge, instead laughed.

But Mr. Crowe only shook his head, stroking his snowy white beard. "Miss Amelia certainly wasn't pleased when it was Sir Samuel Cleavont who wooed her but I doubt she'd resort to killing her own fiance just to get revenge on Sir Cleavont."

"It _does_ seem far-fetched," Dorothy agreed.

"Aye, thought that meself," said another maid.

When Leif saw that he had packed everything, he started to go out but Dorothy stopped him. "Mr. Leif," she said. She referred to him as 'sir' since they saw him as higher-ranked among the servants there, and the equal of the house butler Mr. Doherty. "You've seen to Master Cleavont, 'ave ye?"

He remembered the man whose hands bled and nodded. "Yes."

"That man," she sighed. "Raised 'im meself...'e was the most badly tempered 'mong the three children, 'e was, but held it at bay longest. Pitied 'im I did. Aye, this house lost some of its warmth when Miss Amelia rejected the poor fellow."

"But Sir Cleavont seemed satisfied that Amelia was to be wed to Sir Justin," Leif murmured.

"O' course, o' course," one of the maids interjected. "The master loved Miss Amelia, 'e did, aye. Miss Amelia was always the sweet little monster. All men," and here she sent the driver another glare, "cannot seem to see that. I suppose Master Justin was no' an exception."

"Here, here now!" another maid protested. "'Ave heard that the marriage is to just for convenience!"

All eyes swung to her and Leif found himself caught by the gossip once more. "How so?" asked Dorothy the head maid, obviously slightly miffed she had not heard it first.

"Well," the maid went on, "Sir Whitfield's plantation seems to be falling in ruins and 'tis Duke Evans who wishes to buy it. Miss Amelia is to wed Sir Justin to try and save their lands." She paused for effect, nodding and putting her hands over her hips. "After all, everyone knows that Sir Justin is mighty powerful in the Parliament. Knew his father, I did. 'E was the master of my cousin's aunt...gambled all 'is wife's money and property. Master Justin righted that in time, that 'e did!" She gave a hearty laugh. "But that Miss Amelia caught 'erself a fine fish, I say."

Leif frowned.

Just then, one of male servants entered the room. He scanned the faces of the gathered, raising an eyebrow. "Fine lot you are, gossiping while working. 'Ere, the Missus has asked for some tea."

Leif rose just as the maids scurried about. Excusing himself, he went to find his master.

* * *

Time found Miss Emily in the arms of Madame Cleavont, the head mistress of the house. The older woman looked helpless as she held the sobbing woman, pale in her sorrow. Cain watched them dispassionately for a moment as the inspector tried to answer Madame Cleavont's harsh questions before removing himself from the room.

Walking along the hallways, he found his valet. He talked with him for a while, discussing the arrangements for the quick return to their home in London. Leif offered an apology that Hargreaves reflexively waved away. He then asked if he had seen a little boy with golden eyes, to which Leif frowned.

"I cannot be sure," he said a little dubiously. "I have seen many children while here..."

"This boy is particular," Cain remarked, looking out of the hallway window. "He is French."

Leif's frown deepened. "But you said--"

"Yes, yes," Cain interrupted, almost a little impatiently. His eyes were distant. "But you must remember--Madame Kinnison went to France and there gave birth to Leonard."

"...I see." Leif's voice was uncomfortable.

Cain turned to him, fingers brushing against the heavy drapes beside the window frame. "You think a lot, Leif," he said fondly.

At this, Leif looked up quickly and the count found, not without some satisfaction, that he was blushing. "I did not mean--" he quickly said but stopped when he found his master smiling. He shook his head. "I've not seen the boy, but he seems like a mystery."

"A mystery?" Cain mused. He looked into the far end of the hallway, again thoughtful. "I believe that he is the answer."

* * *

The boy was in the garden, sitting on a stone bench and glaring at the rose bushes all clipped to perfectly equal spheres. He started when a shadow fell over his own and he turned. The sun quickly engulfed his eyes and he had to shade them, but it was for nought. The sun disappeared with the clouds.

"M'sieur Thoreau," said the voice in a slightly accented French.

Leonard blinked at the owner of the voice. _"Oui...?"_ he said, a little confused.

The face smiled at him. "I am Count Cain Hargreaves," the man said in French. He sat beside him. "Do you mind if we speak in English? My French...is not as good as yours."

Leonard's eyes widened; he had heard of this count from their room mistress. "N-no," he stammered in English, "your French is--is perfect!" This was said in a rush and met with a wry look.

"You need not lie," Hargreaves told him. "You can call me Cain. Do you mind?" And here he held up a pipe. "The house suffocates me and I find myself wishing for another kind of smoke."

Leonard shook his head again and he looked sad. "Brother used to smoke, too," he said sadly.

Cain paused in the act of lighting his pipe but continued. "Ah, yes. Justin Thoreau."

The boy looked up at him. "Did you know him?" he asked eagerly.

Pipe in his mouth, Cain took a few puffs before shaking his head. "Sadly, no. I have only heard about him. Gossip in the ton, you know."

"Oh." Leonard continued to stare at the bushes. After a few seconds of silence, he said softly, "Brother promised me that when he married Ma'moiselle Amelia he would take better care of Sister Emily and I."

"I see." Cain wisely did not say more.

Leonard was nodding. "Yes." His accent thickened his English words. "Emily didn't like the Mademoiselle. She said we were happy together, especially after Maman died." He looked up, looking guilty. "Emily did not mean that, honestly! She was only distressed when Justin announced he was to be wed. He and Emily argued, and he kept telling her that it was his duty because politics looked unkindly upon men who were not married. I understood Emily, but we would have been happy despite everything. I know it!"

Cain watched him. He removed the pipe from his mouth and looked away when Leonard continued to stare at him. "Your eyes," he murmured.

Leonard appeared startled, then said angrily, "What about them?"

At the tone, Cain turned to him smiling softly. Without intention, he held out a hand to touch the boy's cheek. Leonard flinched but did not draw away when the count's thumb brushed against his eyebrows, trailing over his eyelashes. He closed his eyes but Cain said softly, "Keep them open."

Leonard nodded and obeyed as the count drew closer to him, smiling. "Your eyes...they are beautiful," Count Cain Hargreaves murmured finally before withdrawing his hand.

The boy's eyes widened, then he smiled widely. "You are the first one to tell me this," he said with the happiness of a ten-year-old. Then, matter-of-factly, he said, "So are yours."

Surprised, Cain stiffened at the boy's smile. In a few moments, he had finished his pipe and was tapping it on the bench to rid himself of the ashes.

* * *

During lunch, it was announced that they would be allowed to leave after the body of Sir Justin Thoreau was loaded into the carriage that was to bring him to London for autopsy. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, loudest of all was Count Hargreaves'.

"Did they solve the crime, do you suppose?" one whispered.

But it was met with a shake of a head. No one knew if the person did not know or if he was saying that the crime would not be solved.

Staring at the food on his plate, Hargreaves felt his appetite leave him despite it being only the second course. He gestured to Leif. "Have you packed everything?" he murmured to his valet.

"Yes, sir."

"We will leave as soon as possible." He stood, the movement causing quite a scandal to the guests. The count gave a polite nod to Madame Cleavont who had also stood, wondering what on earth the count was up to now. "I thank you for your hospitality and apologize for my curtness, yet I have some business to see before I leave for London."

"O-of course," the flustered hostess said, returning to her seat.

Hargreaves turned to the other guests and gave a bow. "Please excuse me and continue to enjoy your meal." His eyes turned to a customary place and found that Madame Cleavont's son's place was vacant. Samuel Cleavont did not eat. His face quirked to a smile and he quickly left, Leif trailing behind him.

The count ignored the whispers behind his back; he already had a reputation as an eccentric count: he would live up to their expectations. Walking through the hallway, he asked to the valet whom he knew was behind him, "The inspector is leaving for London in an hour, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"I knew it, that fool. I supposed he missed something." Muttering under his breath, Cain made his way through the spiral stairways to the first floor of the mansion, where he saw Inspector Renault talking to someone. He broke away and turned to the count who was quickly making his way towards him. "Count Cain," he drawled.

"Inspector," Cain said curtly. "I trust you've studied Sir Thoreau's body."

The Chief Inspector seemed put off. "Of course," he snapped. "That _is_ why I'm here."

"What have you found?"

"What is it to you?"

Hargreaves glared at him. "I am being held prison in this house against my will," he retorted. "I have the right to know. I want to see the body." His eyes held a glint of darkness that made Renault step back.

Looking very unhappy, he hesitated before gesturing to the group of men who were over at the side of a man-shaped mound covered in white cloth stained with red. Cain quickly strode towards it, the other police stepping back in astonishment as the count threw back the white cloth to reveal Justin Thoreau's stiffening body.

With a quirk of his mouth, Hargreaves noted that the dead man's right hand was still clutched, which had probably escaped the inspector. He peeled away the fingers, ignoring the gasps of alarm escaping from the police. Before Inspector Renault could pull him away, he had already taken a black glove from Thoreau's clenched hand.

"Eureka," he murmured to himself.

Inspector Renault looked annoyed. "A glove," he said.

"And held by a dead man." Count Hargreaves held it before him, stretching it over his hand. It was a small glove, made of black silk. He smiled. "Inspector Renault, who is your primary suspect?"

"No doubt about it," came the staunch reply, "Sir Samuel Cleavont. He has a reason for hating Thoreau for taking Miss Amelia Whitfield away from him and he has no alibi."

Hargreaves turned to him. "You should listen to servants' gossip, Inspector." He grabbed the inspector's hand and dropped the glove into his open hand. Renault was too stunned to react. "This is a kid glove. The killer is a woman."

* * *

In the study gathered the following people: Madame Cleavont (head mistress of the house), Sir Samuel Cleavont, Miss Emily Thoreau and her younger brother Leonard, all sitting on the chairs provided; Count Cain Hargreaves was on a separate armchair; and Inspector Renault stood before them.

Leif was there; but he was a shadow melting into the corner of the room. No one counted him.

Inspector Renault explained the turn of events. Miss Emily paled and Samuel Cleavont whitened. Madame Cleavont sputtered, "What--what kind of strength does a woman have to push an unknowing man over the balcony?"

"We do not know yet," Inspector Renault said slowly as he paced before them. "The glove is bought only by rich people, and we have reason to suspect Miss Amelia Whitfield. I am here only to inform you before I set off to question her myself."

Samuel Cleavont was quickly on his feet, hands clenched. "That's absurd! Amelia would _never_ do such a thing!" he declared.

"How do you know?" Renault asked, pausing from his pacing. He frowned. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"I...I," Samuel began to stammer until Madame Cleavont touched his shoulder a little impatiently.

"This is intolerable," she snapped. "Are you implying that my son has something to do with the murder?"

"Until I found the glove, madame, your son was the primary suspect," the inspector replied seriously.

Hargreaves smiled at the implication that it was the inspector who found the glove, but he chose not to comment.

"Ridiculous," the woman scoffed. "You are better off blaming that Amelia woman. She is as heartless as those whores in taverns...taking and taking without giving! She took my son's heart, threw it back to him, and spat on it without a second thought!"

"Mother!" Samuel sounded embarrassed.

"'Tis true, I say!" Madame Cleavont proclaimed shrilly. "If she wasn't Justin Thoreau's fiancee she would not be welcomed in this house!"

"What can you say about Miss Amelia?" Inspector Renault turned to the two Thoreaus.

Emily Thoreau was staring at her lap but Leonard piped up, "She was nice to me but she always screamed at servants. She liked horses and dresses. She orders one everyday, and Brother always indulges her, saying that they are to be married anyway."

"She played with men," Emily said seriously, twisting her fingers with her skirt, eyes never leaving them. "Loving and leaving them. I would not be surprised if she killed my brother."

"And at what motive?"

"Indeed," Count Hargreaves interjected with a drawl. "There _is_ no motive, because it is Miss Emily Thoreau's glove."

There was a sudden silence as everyone stared at him.

Then, Emily Thoreau's eyes widened as she found herself on her feet. "Liar!" she accused. "I own no such thing."

"Ah, but you forget," Hargreaves said, apparently undisturbed. "I danced with you last night."

Emily paled and she stepped back, hands touching Leonard's as if to find warmth in them. She shook her head again. "I danced with you once--how can you remember what kind of gloves I wore?"

"We danced," the count said, a little wistfully, "yet you pulled away and said you had a headache."

 _"Forgive me, I am a little dizzy."_

 __

"Tis fine."

 _"I...I have to go. I cannot dance anymore."_

"You disappeared. I pulled your hand. You were fast, and I caught your glove. It pulled from your arm but you seemed not to notice. I watched you clutch your dance card and moved through the glitters.

"Yet you went first to the gambling tables, not to your room. You were looking for someone. You were looking for your brother, were you not?"

Miss Emily kept silent but she sat down and began to cry, hands over her face.

"You lied to me," Hargreaves said, standing and going towards her. He knelt before her and took the glove's pair from his pocket. "You said you cannot dance anymore but you did. You danced with Justin Thoreau right before you killed him."

"Miss Thoreau..." Samuel's eyes were wide. Leonard was staring at the count in horror.

Emily was sobbing. "Tis true, tis true!" she cried out. "I killed him while we danced. I asked him if we could have our last dance and he agreed and _smiled_ \--the MONSTER--he _smiled_ at me and agreed to dance! He smiled, too, when he said we would be together forever--when he said he loved me--"

Hargreaves took her hands into his, forcing her to uncover her tear-stricken face. She did not look into his eyes. "Leonard is your and Justin's son, is he not?"

Emily was weeping harder. "Yes. I was fourteen when Justin took me to bed. I was glad-- _glad_ that my brother loved me too! Maman was stricken and we went to France where I had Leonard."

"...Sister?" Leonard whispered.

"Not sister, Leonard." Emily wrenched her wrists away from the count and threw her arms around her son. "I am your 'maman', always! How I've longed to hold you and hear you say those words! Your brother is your 'papa'. Will you forgive me? Forgive your maman. I loved you always and I had to kill him! He was going to leave us for another woman, that whore Amelia Whitfield! She knew nothing of the hardships we faced, of the love I had for Justin. She knew _nothing_ and I hated her for that!"

Leonard was crying as he clutched his mother's skirt. "Maman, maman," he cried.

"Forgive your maman!" Emily cried, burying her face in her son's blond hair.

* * *

 _"Would you like to dance?" Emily asked her brother._

 _"Amelia is here," Justin said, voice hushed._

 _"She is scheduled to leave at dawn and has retreated earlier to her room," she whispered. She moved into her brother's unsteady arms. "Oh, Justin, I missed you!"_

 _"But we have only been together last night," he said to her, almost laughing._

 _But the girl he held in his arms continued to burrow into him, arms wrapping around his waist under his jacket. "It is not enough," she murmured. "Dance with me, my love."_

 _"It will be the last time," he said, all the while thinking he could not ever bring himself to refuse her. He had promised himself it would be the last dance many years ago, and here they were, dancing yet again._

 _He did not feel her stiffen beneath him. He did not feel see her sorrowful smile._

 _"Yes," she agreed. "For the last time."_

 _And with the muffled sounds of the band, of the chatters, of the night, they danced together on the balcony: brother and sister held each other as lovers with only the gargoyles and marbles and potted plants as witnesses._

* * *

Count Cain Hargreaves was one of the first guests to leave.

It was drizzling outside and he thought sourly that it would be a fine time to return to merry little London. Leif went ahead to take the bags to the footmen and he waited at the hall for him to return. Dressed smartly in his black cape and hat, he checked his pocket watch, wondering what Merryweather would say when he returned. She would probably berate him for not bringing him again.

He really could not help it. Balls were not meant for little girls.

There was footsteps behind him and he turned. His eyes softened. "Hello, Leonard."

The little boy looked up at him. He was dressed also in travelling clothes; Professor Dumont had agreed to take the boy with him and tutor him while the Kinnisons, his grandmother's family, were to be informed and they in turn agree to take him in. Leonard stared up at him dully.

"Maman broke down," he said bluntly in French. "They are to take her to the mental institution soon. I will visit her from time to time."

Cain did not answer.

"Speak to me," the boy insisted. "In French! I know you can speak it, I know you learned enough to answer me! You ruined my life! I might have stayed with her forever, I don't care if she killed Bro--Papa. As long as I was with her, I would have been fine because she loved me. She was my mother for so long because my old Maman--my Grandmama did not speak to me. My sister was the only mother I loved. Answer me, you devil!"

His little body shook but he defiantly stared up to Cain, who only shook his head and looked sad. "Leonard," he answered in French as he knelt before the boy, "she loved you and she loved your Papa. But it was inevitable. A love between siblings are always damned."

"Just because _you_ are damned does not mean that those like you should be damned as well," Leonard hissed. Then, he stepped forward, arms outstretched to touch Cain's face. His thumbs brushed lightly over Cain's eyes, as Cain had done before to him. There was hatred in his face.

"Your eyes are ugly," he spat out and turned to run.

Stunned, Cain watched him disappear through the colossal doors as he continued to kneel. He felt a wave of sadness and regret pass over his heart. "But your eyes are still beautiful, even in hatred," he whispered to the vanished boy.

"Master Cain."

Cain Hargreaves started at the sound of his valet's voice and he stood quickly, turning to him. His valet's face was expressionless. "The carriage is waiting, sir," he told him.

Cain threw one last look to the doors, sighed, straightened his hat and gave his cape one last tug before tucking his cane under his arm. He nodded at Leif and held out Miss Emily Thoreau's black glove. "Get rid of this for me, Leif. I found this dirty thing under a potted plant in the balcony." He turned away quickly as the valet took the black strip of cloth without a word. "Let's go home," the count said in a resigned tone.

Without waiting, he opened the door leading outside and hurried to the carriage, his manservant trailing behind him. The footman closed the carriage door for Count Cain and the valet. In a few seconds, they were on their way to London.

**Author's Note:**

> Fell flat with the story, especially since I used Cain to manipulate the data given. I'm not a very good mystery writer. ^_^' The title was taken from a song with the same title by Sting which means "The Beautiful Lady Without Regrets". It was in bad French. If you want to read the lyrics with the various translations, go [here](http://stingetc.com/la_belle.shtml).


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